the black butterfly
has again entered my window
circling around the room
of this old house
as i sit idly on a chair
facing the garden
it flutters and then
lands on my hair
and which
as usual i do not really mind
to catch it is not
my cup of tea
any preconceived cruelty to
put it on a frame is out
of the question
i know what it does best:
to mystify a believer of an
incoming tragedy
i put upon my eyes the looks
of numbness
and then a little gaze of
compassion
it leaves without anything
changed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem